"gulags" poems
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
His dead!
I suspect Nietzsche did it in morality with a book;
I suspect Platon did it in birth with stillbirth;
I suspect Machiavelli did it on Ruling with the ends to justify the means;
I suspect Darwin did it in Galápagos with birds;
I suspect Scientists did it in laboratories with stem cells;
I suspect Romans did it in Golgotha with a cross;
I suspect Jews did it in Gethsemane with Judas;
I suspect Christians did it in Spain with inquisition;
I suspect Muslims did in New York with a plane;
I suspect Adolf did it in Poland with gas;
I suspect Stalin did it in Siberia with gulags;
I suspect United states did it in Hiroshima with a bomb;
I suspect United nations did it in wars by looking away;
I suspect God did it in Heaven by suicide;
I suspect I did it here with a poem
I suspect You did it.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
Beer is my bottle of sleep,
and I drink enough sleep to forget,
that I'm all alone
I don't have a home,
and my soul will just die when im dead.
Just another scared boy waiting in his casket
or acting a part
its either action or nothing
the mind is divorced
bodies are useless
why accumulate them
in a sack of skin, the cage created
by a skull cap glass brains are wrapped in
transparent and thin
a sleep sheet sewn
by rapid eye movement
encased in bones
the alcohol is sediment settling in the bottom bodies brave colony, of other owners that forage for a loners last remnants of his ostomy.
cavity.
Bags of excretion excrete his thoughts, like lead does to mass graves of forties gulags.
Hes lost all compassion, extinguished all hope, hopes a disease the defectors misquote, cause cadavers decay, minds atrophy as muscle, senescence affects all and with age we buckle, the pressures too great, mans heart is too weak, the blood is no longer pumped to his feet, as he falls to his knees, the earth says “we are one”, as the worms eat the flesh of the casket they've dug.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
poets were forever deemed the Peter Pans
of the adult world -
where once the sonnet reigned,
was sooner replaced succumbing to
gangrene by a Ferrari, or another polished diamond
of more diadem count in Pythagorean -
they really looked at poets like they murdered
the profession of accounting or plumbing...
god bless the poets, god bless the poet who
made it to a brothel... the only poets that escaped with Cain
and the murderers and the thieves, and the ******
i forgave my enemy to escape... let him earn
fireplace respect and custody of children should things
take a sour turn... only poets are welcome...
Jackie Chan, Billy the Kid and Dante...
**** you worship bound knights of auto-suggested
failures selling turnips and charcoal
writing poems like writing a signature in digital
imprint; they called us the children of
fervent art expressed -
a matchbox filled with huff-heaving-bollocks that was snarled-at
scratching the effortless geography of hind and
itch of the tabernacle to gallop toward a bloodless
Crusade - as Papa Urban promised unreal -
welcome the cocktail shakers of the crushed craniums
of Jerusalem's innocents - we come in
peace, come in the name of the un-spiced potato
gulags of the supposed stews of the many promises
the Pope twerked for granted in the raised *****
of the Ancient Mosque - **** praise be to Allah -
god / dog - but faithfully, anally yours...
**** a **** - nine dead, it's day-to-day Germany:
i like to dream... yes yes right between the sound machine...
you don't know what we can find...
why don't you tell your dreams to me...
close your eyes girl... papa fried Freud squirrel...
tripped on a white horse galloping standstill
in a 1sqm balcony - everyone swore it was Zorro....
but i corrected them, it was: Zoroaster (colon,
former fame for listings, otherwise the italics,
colon the synonymous variation of italics, pressurised
theatre pause - no listing).
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
She is a third world girl
Living like a timid squirrel
She needs hair, to live safely
Ghettoes, Gulags, Auschwitz at every nook and corner
Acid is boiling in disguise of hot tea
Her dignity lies in her silence
She has to bend her head to walk proudly
She is a gazelle
Not allowed to take a leap
Hyenas had gifted her chain of freedom
And there are posters in the streets: “A female terroristwanted…dead or alive”
She had planted bombs of desire
On her bare hands and visible legs.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
A hammer and sickle to tickle them
cries of, 'it's Stalin' to ******* them, then
silence on Red Square.
Dacha's popping up everywhere
communism like evangelism
gathers the money in
holiday plans.
There are true ***** drinkers
thinkers like
Solzhenitsyn
gulags
and the rags of
Moscow.
I won't go
to the palace where tells of a ****** or
on the long road that tells us of more.
The KGB
a resident family of the community
are looking for me via Odessa.
I've gone to Sweden to lead 'em astray, can't stay in the concrete connivance no way, but
I end up in Siberia wearier than the dogs who run with the pack.
Looking back at the back of it
there's a lack of it, but I'll manage it and a carriage would help a bit to carry me home .
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC